


insomnia

by bothareinfinite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom!Reader, Crowley (Good Omens)/Reader - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Kinda, M/M, Morning Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Sex, Sleepy Sex, Smut, more like middle-of-the-night sex, top!Crowley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 13:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20135881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bothareinfinite/pseuds/bothareinfinite
Summary: “Good morning.”“It’s two a.m.”“Eh, still th’morning, isn’t it?”





	insomnia

You’ve never been much of a heavy sleeper. You’ve tried everything—counting sheep, meditation, times tables, _ backwards _ times tables—but even the threat of an early morning shift isn’t enough on nights like this, your body refusing to give in, in spite of the existing and imminent exhaustion. Crowley, on the other hand, has the sleeping thing down to a _ science _. It’s unfair, really. Angels and demons don’t need sleep (Aziraphale is living proof of that).

But you must admit, at moments like this? It doesn’t seem too bad. Because when, after a while of struggling to go down, you give up and open your eyes, you’re faced with the sight of a sleeping demon just inches away. 

It’s difficult to explain how Crowley affects you when he’s like this. There are layers to it. Firstly, and most fundamentally, he is a creature of temptation. Even setting aside his mischievous grin and come-fuck-me-hips, there seems to be something about him, on a molecular level, that makes you feel _ all _ kinds of loose and immoral (not just you, either; you see the looks he draws in public). And that doesn’t change when he’s asleep; simply lying here besides him is enough to bring your pulse a few notches above normal, enough to make your lips feel kiss-swollen and your thighs inch further apart.

But he also looks…(he would have your head for saying this, you know, but) he looks so _ innocent _, really. In sleep, he isn’t so focused on looking intimidating. There’s no forced underbite, no knit brows; just slow breaths and the occasional flutter of his eyelids. Baby snores, little hissing noises as he takes in oxygen you know he doesn’t need. All in all, you're struck by the desire to be closer to him, but also to avoid waking him at all costs.

_ Eh, he’s a deep sleeper. _He must be—he told you he’d once napped for the better part of a century. Surely he wouldn’t notice if you reached out and ran a few fingers over the smooth skin of his jaw…

As it turns out, he doesn’t. 

It’s strange, to touch him like this. It’s so chaste, yet it feels weighty. Intimate. You slide over a bit more towards him, not quite closing the gap with your body, even as you lean in your head further, further, eyes closing as your lips seek purchase on his cheek.

You definitely aren’t expecting his lips to meet yours.

Your eyes make to fly open in surprise, and they probably would, if you weren’t so damn _ tired. _ As it is, they make it about halfway before fluttering back shut. The few brain cells you have awake right now can’t be bothered with something as silly as vision; they’re too focused on kissing him _ back _. 

You’ve always been surprised at how soft Crowley’s lips are—though, considering how fastidious he is about every other aspect of his appearance, perhaps you shouldn’t be—and never more so than now. Gentler than you’ve ever felt; you both barely lean into the kiss, his mouth falling half-open against yours, and you’re only vaguely aware of his arm curling over and around your waist. His clever fingers toy with the edge of your pajama top before slipping under, first to trace nonsense patterns along the sensitive skin of your back, then flattening to pull you closer. You respond with a gentle tug of your own, and just like that, you’ve rolled over, him atop you, your sleep clothes having mysteriously vanished.

It’s good, this, drowsy as you are. The long, lean weight of him, sinking you deeper into the mattress. His hips narrow and nested snugly between your thighs, his chest to yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. A soft, hissing inhale as he scents you, breathes you in. And against your stomach—you feel him there, too, feel him hard and thick and urgent. It spurs you on, and you cant your hips up to meet his, aching for more contact, more friction, just _ more _.

That gets a moan out of him. A hand on his arse gets another, and the two of you spend a few more breathless moments like that, grinding against each other, growing more and more desperate until one of you reaches down and aligns him and he slides in—

Normally, when you’re both a bit more awake, he tends to take his time. He likes to tease you, likes to have you sitting atop his lap while he guides your hips with his hands, likes to see you blush and squirm. Centimeter by centimeter, giving you soft, shallow thrusts that grow until he bottoms out—it’s a sweet torture. 

This is no less sweet, but it’s smoother—he sinks into you in one fluid motion. There’s a stretch, but no need to adjust; the sleepiness is still settled deep in your bones, and it’s left you more relaxed, more open than usual. You let out a sigh, your head lolling back against the pillow.

When you both begin to move, it’s slow, a drawn-out rocking that still gives enough friction to draw out a whimper from you, a low growl from him. You arch into him, letting out another little moan as your muscles wake up, the sensation a pleasurable ache. There’s nothing frantic about this. Nothing heavy, nothing harsh; just warmth, and closeness. 

It feels like coming home.

That’s not to say you’re not growing desperate. On the next thrust, he pulls back so far he nearly leaves you, and then pushes back in at an angle that so perfectly targets _ that _ spot. You respond with no sound at all, but with an involuntary drag of nails across his back. You’re rewarded with another hiss, and another thrust, and another, harder, faster, harder, _ harder— _

The tension is mounting, your hips bucking up almost of their own accord, and you feel as though you’re floating. Lost. Untethered. One of your hands finds its way above your head, scrambling unsuccessfully for purchase on the headboard, the sheets, anything to ground you. 

He doesn’t let up his pace, but you feel rough, slim fingers reaching up to intertwine with yours. You squeeze his hand tightly, holding on for dear life as the pressure continues to build to impossible heights. 

When release comes at last, you don’t let go, and neither does he.

You would hold him there, keep his body pressed to yours, if only you had the strength. But your orgasm has left you spent and shaking, and you content yourself to untangle your legs, drop your arm, and let him roll off you. There’s a gentle tap to your shoulder; you comply wordlessly, summoning the last of your strength to curl into him. His chest is cool and damp between your cheek, and he cards through your hair with his fingers, eliciting a purr.

After a moment of breathless silence, he chuckles. “Good morning.”

You let out a half snort, tipping your head up to look at him. His eyes are half-lidded, golden as always but hazy with endorphins. “It’s two a.m.,” you whisper, brushing the tip of your nose back and forth against his. To your delight, he doesn’t pull away; instead, you feel his grip on your waist tighten.

“Eh, still th’morning, isn’t it?” His bottom lip turns down as he says it—not in displeasure, not in a pout or glare, but in a shrugging sort of way. Casual. Devastating. 

You have no choice, really, but to lean in and kiss him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends,
> 
> Crowley/Reader fic is here! Tbh I found him a bit more difficult to write than Aziraphale, but hey, practice makes perfect! If you have any comments (or requests for future fics), lemme know in the lil box below, or reach out to me on tumblr @goodomensandsmut :)
> 
> bisous,  
bothareinfinite


End file.
